Flash From the Past

I was arrested today--let me explain. I was going through my aol email, which I rarely ever check, and deleting all the spam and jokes that I don't have time to read. Suddenly I saw an email I remembered from my undergrad days. Literally, I was arrested, paused, cursor hanging over the "delete" button. I opened it and read the usual: "my email is changing to ****"

Long story short, I saw on this friend's email list Mark's name and his website. I went to it and saw KillJay--his band--featuring their new CD. I listened to the first song, which I actually liked because it is Mark. The lyrics are so hauntingly him. So vividly him. So everything I remember about spending the night with him in that fucking cold and miserable house.

I smiled as I watched the Youtube production of his band singing at a music festival. He's improved quite a bit. His vocals. His screams--not my style, mind you, but I have to admit he's improved. He's doing what he loves to do: write music, sing, and perform. Yes, I realize, I am proud of him.

And grateful. I can't imagine that our lives could have worked out any differently than it has.

And with the words echoing in my head, and the memories of cat and mouse, nascar racing, every sunday bar-b-queing, drinking games saturday nights, followed by church the following sunday morning, and so many laughs that I cannot now think about him without smiling, I leave this blog to end with this:

I wish you all the best, Mark.

Taste Test

I love the taste of words; Althusser's favorite word is "articulated," while Derrida's favorite phrase is "always already." Foucault's "subject-positionings" always already enters into a discourse of articulation (albeit a rather confusing one).

These words round and flatten in my mouth:
"always already": mouth opens, rounds, while tongue licks teeth and lips press gently and then open again. Sound emits and the taste is "always."

Delicious how these words, in particular, spill out of the mouth, across the page, and tumble into years of recognition and repetition.

These formed and formless signposts melt like dark chocolate and are intensified by a glass of pinot noir. I take the position of reader, of taster, of articulater. But for today, I simply relish in their seductive soliloquys.

Fable of the Bees:

Boooooooo!!!!! I actually nodded every time I read more than half a page.

Other breaking news: Bloc Party's new CD ROCKS!! Especially "Hunting For Witches"--but then, I've always been keenly interested in such things.

Also, the song called "Kreuzberg" got me so excited since that is where I went to elementary school in Germany from 1-6th grade!! I googled Kreuzberg, Germany and found out that there is indeed one in Berlin (as the song says mentions a "wall" and "East Berlin"--should have been a BIG clue.)

Ok. Off to class to talk about Fable of the Bees and I would just like to reitterate: BOO!!!!!!

Oh! And I almost forgot, I wanted to respond to the kind comment post I received from Sean. My reply to Tennyson was itself a rather playful banter--especially at the end. I realized I was writing with his style sounding in my head, which is seriously annoying! Hope you are well.

Grad Lounge Blues

I have been reading Tennyson's "In Memoriam A. H. H." and am about half way done. Perhaps this is why I feel so drained of life, so drained of spirit. I am not the first to call Tennyson out on his melancholy verse--and what should one expect but melancholy and despair when reading a song to which no reply can ever be made due to the source, of course, being dead.

There are pieces of Tennyson that I love, that I cherish. But hour after hour spent studying "pain" "droop'd" "sorrow" "possess'd" --and those are just the words in one stanza! Still. One must always look for the hope (I suppose that's part of his point), for me, that bright and shining example of beauty can be found in stanzas like this:

"I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more."

In these 3 stanzas, my own life sighs, murmering the lines in recognition of the state of being that comes from writing. Many times I have spent hours working on a draft, where suddenly the phone would ring and I couldn't quite compose myself enough. I would answer slowly, lethargically, and the caller's voice would rattle in my ear so that I would squint as if trying to visually focus. A few seconds later, of course, my mind slows down to meet my body and its senses and a conversation can be had. But then there are those times when I'm lost to what I'm doing and no amount of conversation can pull me back in. Oftentimes, these phone conversations end in a disgruntled caller and rightly so.

It's funny how 50 pages of Tennyson, 50 pages of verse, can affect my writing so. It's as if I cannot keep his dull voice out of my head. My life is over, should it consist of this. haha. 'but this is funny,' my inner voice says.

Quite right. I answer wearily in reply.

And with that, I leave myself my self to talk.